


i have died my first death.

by medlli



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (and its lack thereof), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dancing and Singing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ferdie is autistic-coded (to the best of my ability anyway), Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Postpartum Depression, Survivor Guilt, is there a tag for "falling out of love with your passions and then rediscovering said passions", side Edelgard/F!Byleth, this is post-CF route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medlli/pseuds/medlli
Summary: Every noise and sound's been cut;killing menow.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	i have died my first death.

**Author's Note:**

> “ **a dancer dies twice—once when they stop dancing, and this first death is the more painful.** ”  
> \- _Martha Graham_
> 
> yes it's a BTS song no I'm not a stan we exist  
> I know this makes it a little corny but give it a chance at least  
> I'm probably hella rusty since it's been almost a year now but it's here and it's something  
> if nothing else, thank you for your time, however brief it may be when you click on this.

> ( _In the deepest depths, I saw myself._ )

Out in the cozy countryside of her Aegir estate, she is forced to face the uncomfortable truth of what she had willfully denied for the past two years.

“The tales of a Mittelfrank fledgling being taken up by one of our dearly beloved veterans and finding each other once again on the battlefield has spread all across Fódlan! Our librettist is hard at work writing and casting for his operetta, but I argued that nothing could beat the real thing! Miss Casagranda is already on board, and it would feel incomplete if we only had one half of our legendary duo! We would be forever honoured if you would join us!”

“Could I… Can you give me some time to think about it, please?”

The troupe member nods before bowing politely. “But of course! I hope to hear from you soon, Lady Dorothea.” They spring back up, grin still wide on their face despite the addressee’s sheepish smile not returning their fervor in kind. The latter holds this expression until the sprightly body vanishes over the horizon, a face of distress immediately taking its place.

She closes her eyes and takes a moment to breathe in deep, opening her mouth and willing her vocal cords to cry the canticles of combat. But she hears not a sound. She wills her arms and legs to twirl and spin as they did on the field to give her comrades the smallest bit of motivation from her heart to theirs, to move once more despite their exhaustion. But her arms fall lamely to her sides as soon as they had lifted. She finds her breaths increasing rapidly.

The war had taken both friend and family alike… and her lifelong loves with it. Her passion for dance. Her penchant for singing.

It is gone.

_The war? They wish for her to recite the bloodied words of war? To prance along the stage the same way she did when she feared for her life? As if it was not those very same things that had marred her friends with death? As if it was not_ her _voice and dance that sent them to their graves—_

“Dorothea?”

She starts upon hearing her name spoken from just over her shoulder, turning to face the source.

“O-Oh! Good—,” she clears the despair that had tightened her throat earlier, “Good morning, Ferdie! How long have you been standing there?”

“Quite a while, truthfully. I have called for you for the better part of a quarter hour around the estate. How long have _you_ stood guard at the door? I fear you have let more than a few unwelcome visitors in; your vigilance sadly seems lacking.” He waves away a well-timed fly for effect.

“Shit. Sorry.” She glances up at the sun, then at the moved shadows on the ground before closing the door. “I missed breakfast, didn’t I?” A candle comes alight in her head at the mention. “Oh, gods. Our daughter—”

“Is alright. One of the maids sought her out and I tended to her soon after once I was notified. I was under the assumption you would see to her this morning for your usual strolls through the gardens. Am I mistaken?” When Dorothea confirms his thoughts, Ferdinand then asks, “Are _you_ alright, my dear?”

She smiles solemnly at him while he places a hand on her cheek, eclipsing her hand over his as he strokes her skin gently. She does not answer.

“While you have just about missed breakfast, mayhaps… you would still care to take said stroll?” She nods. “Would you… mind my company?” She is less silent in her affirmation this time, chuckling as she takes his hand in hers. It had also been two years since their marriage and yet he still felt the need to be so careful.

They enjoy the tranquility for half an hour, nearing the end of their cherished time together at the bench by the pond. The tentative peace ends abruptly, however. “Dorothea, my love… what is it that ails you so?”

Her eyes go wide long before she musters the will to look upon his creased face. Had her years away from the stage made her that much easier to read? “N-Nothing! I’m quite alright, Ferdie Birdie.” She smiles at him while squeezing his still-held hand with reassurance, though it does not reach her eyes whatsoever.

And he seems to notice this.

“I do not believe you,” he says quite blatantly. “It is unlike you to leave our daughter unattended now. In fact, I vividly recall the last time you had behaved this way regarding her. That was well over a year ago. Have… have those feelings returned? Whether it was then or now, I will always do everything I can to aid you through—”

“No, no! I’ve acclimated to her quite well already, as you said.” Ah, so he had noticed, but through a different reason entirely; truthfully, she would rather not have had to recall the nights she stood over that wailing crib, wondering if she should just walk out that door. “I just… well, I…”

When she does not deign him with the rest of her explanation, Ferdinand bows his head, now holding her one hand in between both of his. “I would not will you to share your troubles. Though the war has brought about peace for many, there are those of us still stained by it; we still find our hearts and minds trapped within its long-past conflicts.” When she turns towards him in bewilderment, he merely mirrors her pose, smirking wryly. “It is my wont to miss these sorts of things, but after our lived experience, I could never miss it now. There is a certain posture we have adopted, those of us touched by so much tragedy. We stare out into horizons, pulled back into those dreadful times, lost in traumas that we have not yet and truthfully may never recover from. If you find yourself ready, you can find peace, whether that be with me, or with another that you hold dearly. Or if you feel it would best be resolved within yourself, I can only hope it comes to its conclusion very soon.” He leans forward, pressing a delicate kiss to delicate skin.

He departs in the contemplative silence his words leave behind.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re alright, Dorothea? Even your daughter seems unnerved with all this quiet. I must admit, that _is_ rather unusual for you. Honestly, it’s been rather unusual for quite some time.”

Edelgard looks to the child in her acquaintance’s lap, bouncing in her seat as she chants “Mama! Sing! _Mama! Sing!_ ” The brunette sighs in exasperation, quelling the overexcitement with affectionate head strokes.

“These lulls in our conversations were always the moments you stole to hum a new tune. Or if not that, I would always hear a rhythmic tapping from your shoes or your drumming fingers. But I’ve heard less and less from you since the war ended. Now I hear nothing at all. What happened? Are there… troubles with Ferdinand?”

“Don’t be preposterous,” she snaps, wincing when the emperor quirks an eyebrow at her. While talk like that would have cost most others dearly, it merely earns Dorothea more concern. Another sigh escapes her lips, the hand carding through her hair emphasizing the toll this was taking on her. “No, it isn’t him. It’s me. It’s definitely me.”

The head of white studies the dregs of tea in her cup, allowing her host to the patient space to speak when ready.

“A member of the operetta troupe from Mittelfrank visited me a fortnight ago.”

Pale eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise at the news, a clap resonating out from the balcony; the giddy girl in her mother’s lap joins along. “Oh, Dorothea, that’s wonderful! A return to your old stomping grounds, a comeback to the stage—”

“I can’t do it.”

She moves to cradle her daughter, maternal hand pressed to back of frail, precious strands of auburn. “I want to. And I’ve tried. They want to make an operetta based on the war.” A hitch finds a perch in her throat, fighting against the words she wishes to say. “They—They want me to… to remember those songs I sang to rally our troops. To replicate the dances—the ones that sent our friends to—that got them _killed_ —"

She closes her eyes for just a moment to hold her tears and hears the screams, clear as day. “I can’t, Edie. Not again. Not if it means spitting on their sacrifice. Not when it means remembering so much loss. The loss _I_ caused.”

Though the former dancer does not return her gaze, the emperor’s stare softens with sympathy before returning to the dried leaves in her cup. If she looks closely, she can make out tiny gravestones, one for each friend they had forfeited in their pursuit of power.

“You inspired us, you know. Byleth and me. After the war, I didn’t know if I could do that to any child we took in; who knows what reputation would follow my son for his association to the tyrant and her confidant that made it all happen? What would he hear about our conquest? About my ruthlessness? How would he react? And what of his parents? What if their casualty was my doing? And our lost companions—those we buried after all that strife. Would they have allowed me happiness, after I threw them to the wolves? What would they think, seeing us live in the uninteresting times they themselves also wanted while they lie unmoving in the cold ground?”

Dorothea glances down at her own cup, still a quarter full of tea. Two maids come by as the toddler in her arms stirs, one clearing their table while the other tends to the fussy child. The two women are then left with the opportunity to bask in the stillness of a clear spring day.

“But when I saw that bundle in your arms a few weeks after her birth, and the elation that shone through despite all that anger and anguish… I knew I wanted that too, despite all my trepidation. That the only person that could give me allowance to move on was _me_. For the dead do not speak and the dead cannot feel. That their sacrifices would be in vain if I did not take it upon myself to carry on their legacy. And while I may pause in the memories of the past, time presses ever forward. We can either follow its flows and move forward with it, or let it leave us behind in the shadows of our regrets.”

Edelgard lays her arm down across the table, a palm opened and turned towards the sky. Moments later, a different hand joins hers, replacing the warmth of the sun with the warmth of a companion.

“Think not of your songs as dirges for the dead, but a remembrance of those that once lived.”

* * *

Tonight, the former performer gives in to the request of her audience of one. Though ever hesitant, her heart still in the midst of quelling inner conflicts, she finds the song she had always wanted to sing to her successor. It is an old lullaby, a solemn yet inspiring ode she had learned out on her travels through Faerghus. She sang of a girl who had lost everything through no fault of their own, but finds a magic needle, and with it, a love for creation and a living well-deserved. The musical tale resonates with her now as much as it had then. As to why, she cannot say.

As she lies the babe down to rest, her eyes flit to the doorway, the click of riding boots bringing with them a visitor.

“I have not heard that song in years,” Ferdinand murmurs, his breath an entranced whisper. The couple takes a moment to admire their progeny before the redhead extends a welcoming hand to his wife. “Come, let us not disturb her. I wish to speak with you.”

There is a brief—though pointed—pause before she rests her hand in his. With a raise of hands to his lips and a kiss to her knuckles, he leads her out of the nursery, and surprisingly, out into the garden. They seat themselves on the bench where they had shared many intimate moments; where they had shared one well over a month ago; where he believes they will share another now.

“I feel it easier to speak more candidly when we are out here together. It puts me at ease. I hope you do not mind—in fact, I would go so far as to say I hope you feel the same.”

Though her stare is trained on him, he makes a point of peering out into the pond, following the pattern of lights soft waves reflect from the moon.

“The troupe member from Mittelfrank returned yesterday morning while you were on your way to Fort Merceus—” he let the statement hang in the air “—inquiring about any possible interest you may still have in the operetta. Do not worry, as I did not take it upon myself to respond on your behalf. Unfortunately, they _will_ return in a week’s time to hear yours, and only yours. So what say you?”

Dorothea worries her lower lip and pulls her hand away from his, wringing them nervously; she had not realised it, but she had picked up the habit in the years between Byleth’s return.

“Ah, even there, it stunts you.” He sighs deep, straightening himself up on the bench and finally facing her. Tenderly, he pries her fingers apart, filling the empty spaces with his own. “Pardon my assumption, but it is because of this Mittelfrank offer that you have been even less of yourself as of late, correct? When you are reminded of your actions, your participation… the memories overwhelm you, do they not?”

When she nods slowly—once—he returns it in kind, tucking a strand that had come loose back behind her ear. “I cannot make that decision for you, whether the people of Fódlan should know even the chorus of war songs. They did not ask me. But what I _do_ know is that throughout it all—no, _despite_ it all, you sang. And you kept singing. And while this pause—however long it may be—has gotten the best of you for now, I hope that is what it will stay: a pause. Even if it is never performed on a stage again, I pray that you will keep singing. I miss the sound of you. All of us do. Have you not noticed how silent the birds have been? How will they sing again without your chorus to carry them through?”

Dorothea manages a shaky laugh, though it is immediately followed by a sob, Ferdinand’s hands beating her own in catching the tears that spill over. He gathers her up in his arms, chortling to himself when he hears her blow her nose into the lapels of his coat.

“Your voice has journeyed far and wide. Perhaps you have even lost it along the way a few times. But it will always find you once more, just like it has tonight.”

* * *

And when she hears the thunderous applause, louder than ever from her allies in the front row, she remembers where she can always find it again.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I say this every time I post now, but so much has happened.
> 
> I was unemployed for three months and subsequently landed in a lot of debt. a ghost returned to turn old wrongs right. one of my cats was hospitalized, and the other died. I've taken steps to try and rectify my alcoholism. I tried to disappear. I caught the plague spreading across the world.
> 
> and for a while, I wasn't sure I would ever find the will to write again. even now, I'm still not sure how much I still have in me. I've written on and off for over 10 years now (since 2009; my oldest work is long gone with no way for me to retrieve it), and sometimes I don't know if I'm still in love with it. but in a weird way, I don't know if I could _live_ without it.
> 
> to create is to breathe life into a decaying world. to create is to breathe life into _yourself_. to remind yourself and others that you felt once. that you lived once.
> 
> as it stands, I don't know what my relationship with writing is anymore. but I hope that we can figure it out along the way, whether that's with these sparse postings or maybe even consistent ones someday.
> 
> regardless, if you've kept watch on my works for years now or just got here, thank you all the same. it really means more to me than you could ever know.
> 
> oh shit almost forgot: the nose blowing thing and the austistic-coded ferdie thing were headcanons I got from [Parker](https://twitter.com/TAGASAING), aka the king of Ferdithea. give him support!
> 
>   
>  [personal twitter](http://www.twitter.com/medlli)   
> 


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